Shapeshifted (Edie Spence 3)

I heard talking, outside, as though someone was answering me.

Not Jorgen then. Unless he’d learned how to talk. Had he learned how to talk? I tried to imagine him talking, and saw a comical dog in my mind, one with a tweed coat and a smoking pipe. I snickered at this, and the thumping began again.

“Whatever!” I stood up, naked, and picked up my robe off the floor. I walked down the hall to my front door and swung it open.

Hector was standing outside.

“Why’re you here?” I asked him.

“The more I thought about it, the more I was worried about you. No telling what diseases that old woman had. ”

I squinted at him, choosing the version of him I thought was really him, and not the shadows the porch light made him shoot off to either side. It was hard; there were a lot of him to choose from. “How do you know where I live?”

“You did fill out some forms when I hired you. Can I come inside?”

Nervous laughter spilled out of my mouth like a river. “No. I mean yes. Wait. No. ”

Who was this person talking? Not me. I pressed my hand against my hallway wall. The cross there, it was cold, it felt so good. I took it off the wall and held it against my chest.

“Are you okay, Edie?”

“I’m fine. I’ve always been fine, and I’m going to always keep being fine. ”

He looked doubtful. “You don’t look so fine. Can I come in?”

I leaned forward and put a finger on his chest. “Are you a vampire?” I had seen him in the daylight, but who knew?

“No. I wish you’d get over your vampire delusions. ”

“You would be deluded too if you were me!” My voice rose, and I realized I was shouting. Neighbors, dammit, neighbors! I lowered my voice to hiss, “You’d be looking for a lot of excuses to delude yourself, if you were me. ”

He took my hand, and pushed me gently back. More like he was holding me upright. “I thought you said you were fine?”

“Dammit. ” I took a step back, and the hallway tilted, sending me spilling to the side. I hit the wall with my shoulder. It reverberated up to my neck, and I hurt so bad I wanted to cry. “Here, hold this. ” I handed the cross to him, this one made of real silver. If he touched it, I’d be safe.

He took it, and took a step inside. “Edie—you look really bad. ” He reached his hand out and touched my forehead. His hand was nice and cool. Maybe it’d taken all the chill from the cross and channeled it into me. I reached up and pressed his hand tighter against my forehead.

“You’re hot. You should sit down. ” Fully inside my house now, he took my shoulders and directed me toward my couch.

“I’m totally, utterly okay,” I said, letting him push me down. “Can I have your hand again?” Looking at me strangely, he offered it

over, and I pressed it to my face again. “This is a good hand. I like this hand. ”

“Okay. Edie. You need to calm down. Wait here, okay?” He freed himself, closed my door, and went down my hall. I was there for an hour or twelve, but then he came back and handed me a wet washcloth.

“What were you doing with my cat?”

“Edie. You’re sick. ”

“No I’m not. ” I would totally shake my head to tell him no, only my neck hurt so so bad.

“Yeah, you are. ” He reached into his phone for a pocket. Or the other way around. “We need to get you some help. ”

“Fine. ” I was tired. Now that I was sitting down again, the sleepiness was taking me.

He smiled at me, a warm light in his eyes. “See? You’re still fine. ”

“I’m not sick. ” I looked up, petulant as any child fighting sleep. “I hate you. ”

“You are sick. I know you don’t hate me. ” He held his pocket to his ear.

I remember saying, “Don’t tell Olympio anything,” and then I thought I was going to pass out.

I’m pretty sure I did.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Wherever I was when I woke up, it smelled like smoke—not like cigarette smoke, but like hippie smoke, herbal stuff, and pipe tobacco. A dim lightbulb hung overhead. The ceiling was dingy, stained yellow with smoke and neglect, the walls mostly hidden by colorful banners with phrases in Spanish. I recognized the names of a few saints, and there were posters for soccer tournaments from 1973. There were statues on a cheap table at the back of the room, skeletons wrapped in robes and holding scales and scythes, like the background of a pretentious metal album. Something crinkled beneath me as I moved my head—and sitting up, I realized I’d been lying on tinfoil.

“What the—where—” I patted at my pockets, looking for my phone. My mom. I had to call my mom—but the last things I remembered didn’t involve putting on pants.

“El durmiente despierta,” said a voice in Spanish. A man I didn’t recognize was watching me. He was smoking a pipe, sitting among the statues, and the light in here was so dim I’d thought he was one. He had one whole leg and one that jutted out and ended, amputated at the knee; a crutch leaned on either side of his chair.